


Always Been Yours

by anonymouscactus



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Post-Endgame, endgame spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 18:50:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20087056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymouscactus/pseuds/anonymouscactus
Summary: In which Steve knows more than he lets on.





	Always Been Yours

**Author's Note:**

> So we all have some feelings about Endgame right? Right. Hope this cheers y'all up.  
Also, consider supporting my work at ko-fi.com/lunarlorraine ☺

You’d known what he was going to do before he’d even uttered the words, “Can we talk?” Steve Rogers is nothing if not totally predictable in the most selfless of ways, and even as he sits you down, takes your hands with that resigned, contemplative look on his face, you figure he deserves a little selfishness after so many years of self-sacrifice.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” you begin before he can choke out the words he knows will break your heart. There’s no crack in your voice, no sign that you’re a breath away from breaking, but there is an ache deep in your chest. Your smile is sad but wistful when he nods, ducking his head to avoid your eyes. “That trip through the Quantum Realm really did a number on you, didn’t it?”

Steve sighs, keeps your fingers locked between his as he sits back against the couch of the living room.

“I’ve never felt like I belonged in this time, you know that.” You nod. His eyes glaze over a bit, lost as he is in his memories. “I thought when Peggy…died, eight years ago, that was it. It was easy to…move on, so to speak, and then I met you, and you only made it easier, and I’ll always be grateful for that, for you.

But…seeing her, when we went back to 1970, knowing there was a chance I…I can’t lose her again.”

_ But you can lose me _ , your mind fills in, embittered by the statement even though you’ve seen this coming. You brush it away; you’ll have time to mourn your relationship later. For now, you can’t be selfish.

“Then you need to do what’s going to make you happy.” Your voice cracks this time, pressure building fast behind your eyes as your heart seems to finally get with the program. Steve looks at you, and his own eyes brim with tears.

His fingers are warm and soft over the backs of your hands and they skim up your arms to your neck, pull you close so you can press your foreheads together and breathe the same air, one more time. He squeezes his eyes closed and a glistening drop slips free, trailing down his face in a slow river, and another one quickly follows.

“Come on now, Cap,” you murmur, thumbs brushing the wetness away even as you swallow back a sob. His jaw wobbles with the effort of holding himself back, eyes pinching even more tightly closed.

His mouth is firm, demanding against yours when he pushes forward that extra inch. He tastes of his tears, salty sweet, and his weight is welcome when it presses you back into the couch. It’s a slow race to lose your clothing, hands inching slow across naked torsos to memorize every last detail. His hair is soft where it glides through your fingers as he pulls you apart with his mouth, his fingers, and finally the heavy heat of his cock as he slides into you in one deep, slow roll of his narrow hips.

The entire coupling is slow, torturous because you know it’s the end, but no less earth-shattering when he drops his entire weight, tucks his arms under your legs and angles his hips  _ just there _ . White light flashes behind your eyes, your sobbing moan swallowed by his mouth as he kisses you, open-mouthed, hot, wet, all-consuming. It’s always like this between you and Steve, electric like a rogue powerline, stagnant static electricity threatening to black out the whole city. 

You just  _ click _ .

Sweaty and sated, you lay tangled together against the plush couch, Steve’s head on your chest. There are no words between you, no need for them in the stillness of the room. Under Steve’s ear your heart is racing; you know he hears it, super serum or not, but he says nothing.

There’s nothing  _ to _ say to calm it down. It’s a resignation between you, a knowledge that while you’ll love each other always, you’re just not meant to be.

You go with him to the quantum platform. Sam and Bucky give the two of you a minute, and it’s hard to keep yourself together. You thought you’d done all of your crying the week prior, but it seems you still have tears to cry for your Captain. Dr. Banner stands behind the controls, waiting patiently while Steve gathers his gear.

He finally turns to you, a quiet sadness about him, but there’s peace as well. Excitement even, to reunite with his soulmate. And how could you possibly fault him for that? You discreetly wipe under your eyes when he closes the distance between you, tucking an arm around your back to pull you to his broad chest. Your fingers curl into the folds of his suit and you sigh shakily. Pinch your eyes shut when his lips touch your forehead softly, lovingly.

Again, no words are needed, as a million pass between your gazes.

You step back, shuffle your feet while Steve converses briefly with Sam, even more briefly with Bucky. He embraces his old friend, and you lock eyes with Bucky over Steve’s shoulder. Your heart thuds heavily; this is just as painful for Bucky as it is for you.

He’s solid beside you, his flesh hand clasped tightly with yours when Steve steps onto the platform. The QR materializes, stark white in the sunshine. Mjolnir in his grasp, he nods to the three of you watching, Bucky and you sporting similar wet, sad smiles.

When he’s gone, you turn to press your face into Bucky’s shoulder, hiccuping as his arm curls around yours. Sam and Dr. Banner bicker behind you, trying to figure out how to get him back when the machine only hisses, and Bucky turns to lead you away, still smiling sadly.

You stumble when he stops suddenly, his mouth next to your ear as he says, “Hey, look.”

Lifting your eyes, they find a lone figure sitting beside the lake.

“Sam,” you croak.

Your throat closes, chest tightens when Steve, a much older, more wrinkly version, passes the shield to Sam. He takes it, reluctantly at first, looking to Bucky and you for support. You smile softly as Bucky nods; Steve had informed you of his desire to pass the shield on. At first, he’d chosen Bucky, but after speaking to the former Winter Soldier, realized the shield would be better suited to Sam. He made you promise to support Sam as you had supported him, keep him in line but not let him buckle under the Captain America mantle.

It’d been all too easy to say yes.

Weeks later, the three of you have established a balance between one another. Bucky and Sam continue to bicker, but there’s a deeper respect and understanding between them.

The renovated Avengers compound is quiet now, despite the presence of the three of you, plus Wanda, Dr. Banner, Rhodey, and occasionally Peter. Tony’s absence is felt heavily every day, the lack of classic rock a sore reminder of the price paid for freedom, for life. Nat’s room hasn’t been touched by anyone, but sometimes you sit on her bed, talk as if she’s still there with you. The pillows have lost her fresh, spicy scent, but being in her space is comfort enough.

Sam has taken on the Captain America name well. He isn’t as bossy as Steve, but he keeps the rest of you in top shape. He’s reformulated your training routines, improved simulations, and insists upon Team Building Night once a week to keep morale up. It works, kind of. Wanda occasionally dips out and you hardly ever see Clint, not that you blame him. Everything about the compound reflects on the losses you’ve suffered, the people missing from your lives, the holes they’ve left behind.

You struggle to cope some days, the pain of missing Nat’s snark, Tony’s insight, egotistical and brash but no less welcoming, Steve’s arms around you, too sharp to ignore. He and Peggy live upstate, and though you’ve been invited, it’s been hard to go visit. It’s still fresh, and you know he doesn’t take offense to your reluctance to see him. You still need time. 

But not too much, considering it seems to have caught up with Steve.

Bucky and Sam visit him regularly, taking monthly trips out to catch up with him. They always bring your regards with them when they do.

Despite his best efforts, Bucky struggles with Steve’s absence too. Having been gone for five years, only to lose his best friend to their long-lost former lifetime, hasn’t been easy for him. You hear him sometimes at night, wailing and sobbing in his sleep, when you yourself can’t seem to find any rest. Most nights you will yourself to go to him, but you can’t bring yourself to move.

The two of you have navigated the road to recovery together, having lost in ways different from the others. Bucky is still weak under the weight of not having apologized to Tony before he… You know it haunts him still, despite your and Sam’s best efforts to alleviate it. But Bucky’s nothing if not incredibly stubborn, just like Steve, and he still holds himself accountable for the falling out between Tony and Steve, the rift that was never completely repaired.

The connection between you and Bucky has grown stronger, deeper, but still you can’t let yourself get too close. Not again. Least of all to Steve’s best friend. It feels like a betrayal, even though Steve had…left you. It sounds too harsh in your mind, insinuating you  _ hadn’t _ had a choice in the matter. You suppose, if you flipped it, you hadn’t. Steve had his mind made up before having the respect to talk to you, and there would be no talking him out of it. 

God, you miss him. Had he been here, you wouldn’t be playing this balancing act of ‘should-I-shouldn’t-I’ with his best friend. The lingering touches under the guise of comfort, the furtive glances when the other isn’t looking. It’s there, you both know it is, but neither of you is brave enough to reach out and take it.

You don’t know if either of you ever will be.

Is this where you were bound to end up? Longing for your ex-lover’s best friend while the memory of said ex is still so fresh? The pain of his leaving still able to steal the breath from your lungs? More than once, these thoughts have triggered anxiety attacks, crippling bouts of rapid breathing, a racing heart, blood rushing in your ears, and white noise in your head. The others have found you in such states before, but you’ve kept quiet about the triggers. What would they think?

You set aside your Stark pad with a relieved sigh; finally, you’ve finished your latest mission report to hand in to Sam. It’s only ...six hours late. Oh well. You submit it, lock the pad, and crack your knuckles. Your back pops when you arch in the chair, groaning at the relief from sitting for so long. You could have been done earlier, but your mind had wandered, as it tends to when you’re feeling particularly fragile.

It’s three months today since Steve left. Left only to return having lived an entirely new life with a woman who wasn’t you. You run a hand through your hair. You’ve been seeing a therapist, at the advisory of Sam who claims it would be unprofessional to be both your counselor and your Captain. You’d feel more comfortable with him, but, Captain’s orders.

Your therapist, anyway, has told you it’s healthy to go back and forth between anger, hurt, grief, and denial of feelings. You’re still struggling heavily with that last one, but according to Dr. Hamlin, you’ve made progress. It doesn’t quite feel like it yet, but you guess that’s your denial talking.

It’s close to dinner time, and it’s you, Bucky, and Wanda in the compound. Sam has taken Rhodey and Peter off on a mission, strictly intel, leaving the three of you to wander about. You’ve barely seen Wanda; she hasn’t been doing so well with her coping as she lets on. Bypassing her room even now, you hear her quiet sniffles and you frown, heart hurting for your friend and her seemingly unending grief.

You knock lightly, and moments later you hear the lock slide into place. You don’t take offense; Wanda’s far less open with reaching out to people, though as of late you haven’t been feeling very personable either. You move on.

Bucky’s door is cracked open, and without thought you push it open, saying, “Hey Buck, you hungry?”

Your voice dies in your throat when you take in Bucky, standing with his bare, broad back to you. Your throat goes dry when he turns his head to glance at you over his shoulder, his chestnut hair falling in his face. His vibranium arm gleams under the lighting of his room, gunmetal grey streaked with shimmering gold. Where it joins with his shoulder is smooth skin. Still scarred, but no longer angry and red. His time in Wakanda had taught him of salves from plants that could, more or less, heal his scarring.

He’s a sight, and you wonder just why it’s taken you so long to realize it.

But he’s off-limits, or so you’ve convinced yourself.

Your face flames when he turns fully to face you, the sight of his bared, sculpted torso setting your blood on fire. You clear your throat quietly, avert your eyes in some semblance of dignity.

“Sorry, the door was open,” you mutter, praying he can’t detect the slight tremor in your voice.

“‘S’ok, doll.” You swallow, stomach clenching at the pet name. “What were you saying?”

There’s a rustle, and his pale, beautiful skin is hidden behind a dark t-shirt.  _ Thank god. _ He’s dressed in dark jeans, feet bare, and there’s something so comfortingly domestic about it that it makes your heart melt. You know Bucky’s had a hard time adapting to life in the compound, in the building Tony built, but you’re glad he seems to be making headway in at least that regard.

“Was gonna ask if you were hungry,” you offer. As if it can hear you, Bucky’s stomach grumbles, and the tension that had just suffocated the room is gone. The two of you share small laughs.

“You cooking?” he questions, sliding his feet into a pair of slippers. It makes you grin, the notion of the once-feared Winter Soldier in slippers too ridiculous.

“Sure. What are you in the mood for?”

Dinner consists of all the Sunday fixings, at Bucky’s request. Roasted chicken, potatoes, green beans, gravy, and fresh biscuits over glasses of red. All the tension from earlier is gone, and if you let the wine get to your head, the closeness and intimacy of cooking and eating together almost feels like a date.

The way Bucky’s eyes glitter in the low lighting of the kitchen takes your breath away, and you have to busy your hands with pouring two more glasses before they do something stupid. But your fingers brush when you hand him his glass, and your eyes lock again. It’s back, that god awful tension that leaves you teetering on the edge of ‘do-I-don’t-I’. You can’t look away from him, the storm blue-grey of his eyes pulling you in like an undertow, threatening to drown you. 

Bucky’s movements are slow as he sets down his glass and rises from the island, stepping around it to press in close to you. He towers over you, but it makes you feel…safe, secure. Your heart is a wild horse in your chest, galloping a beat so fast it threatens to make you pass out. But then Bucky’s hands are on you, flesh on your waist and gunmetal grey gingerly cupping your jaw, and it grounds you again long enough to see his pupils dilate just a fraction.

His scent and warmth surround you as he leans in, movement still slow to give you the chance to back out, but you’re cemented in place. You’re tired of denying your feelings, so tired of it, but when Bucky’s lips are just a whisper away, you picture Steve in your mind’s eye, and whatever spell has fallen over the two of you is broken.

You know Bucky can see the minute he loses you, the wall that seems to go up behind your eyes as you clear your throat and force yourself out of his arms and out of reach. In return, his posture straightens, body going rigid as he attempts to ice you out too. It hurts more than you expect, but you’re the one at fault, putting distance between you when it’s obvious there should be none.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper quietly in the tense silence. “I-I can’t.”

Bucky barely manages a nod before he’s sweeping out of the kitchen in a dark flurry. You hear the sound of the elevator, and once you’re alone, your heart sinks to your stomach. The wine is tart as you gulp it down, cursing your stupid head and stupid heart for confusing you so  _ all the time _ .

You get wine-drunk by yourself, making a split decision to spend the night in Nat’s room. More than ever, you miss coming to her when you can’t make sense of yourself. You sit against the headboard, cheeks shining with tears you’re tired of holding back. You hug her pillow to your lap, talking quietly into the empty room. The windows are open, ruffling her curtains and it almost feels like a weight settles beside you on the bed. She’s here in spirit, you know, but it makes you cry harder.

“I miss you so much, Natasha,” you sob, face buried in the pillow as your bottle of red sits forgotten on the nightstand.

You seek out Sam when he’s back from his mission. Bucky and you have spent the past two days awkwardly dancing around one another, never able to hold eye contact before one of you looks away. It’s painful, tearing into your heart like a blade and twisting until you’re gasping for breath.

Sam is in his office, and he waves you in with a grin, though it falters a bit when he takes in your expression.

“I need you, Sam,” you tell him honestly. “Sam the VA counselor, though, not Cap.”

He must see the toll whatever is on your mind is taking on you because any protest he might’ve had dies on his tongue. You tell him everything, your guilt, your feelings for Bucky but the betrayal you feel towards Steve. It sounds like nonsense when you blurt it all out, but Sam seems to make sense of it. Must be the counselor in him.

He understands, he tells you, has seen this coming a mile away and you’re confused. 

“It was bound to happen. The two of you share a loss that means a great deal to both of you. It’s natural for you to grow closer over it, to develop feelings. I know you think you’re betraying Steve by loving Bucky, but I assure you, you aren’t. Steve knew what he was doing, and even though he hurt you, he knew you were meant for someone else. Steve wants you to be happy, Y/N, so you need to let yourself be happy. You’ll always have your love for Steve, but you can keep him in your heart  _ and  _ make room for someone else.”

You eye him warily when he pauses. “Why are you all the sudden Bucky’s number one cheerleader?”

Sam huffs. “Look, Tin Man and I might not always get along, but we trust and respect each other. The two of you are my best friends, and I want both of you to be happy. If that’s with each other, I’m all for it. Y’all gonna have to keep the moon eyes on the low, though.”

You laugh wetly, your eyes having brimmed on their own accord with tears of both happiness and sadness. Sadness for letting go of Steve, or starting to, and happiness for having the support of your best friend. He hugs you tightly to him, kisses your temple softly, and wishes you luck.

Bucky’s in the gym, or so FRIDAY tells you, and you make your way there immediately. He’s wailing on a punching bag, hair tied back, and shirtless.  _ Great _ . As if it wasn’t difficult enough admitting your feelings, you now have to face his Greek-god physique to do it.

He pauses mid-swing when he sees you enter the gym, slows the bag for a moment before his jaw clenches and he resumes his routine. You walk over to him slowly, shyly, feeling nausea bubbling in your stomach. He still doesn’t look at you even as you step up beside the bag.

“Bucky?” you question softly, but still he refuses to look at you. Gritting your teeth, you stop the bag and he just manages to stop his fist mid-jab. He glares hard at you, but you stand firm against the heat of the Winter Soldier. “Bucky.”

“What?” he snaps, whirling away from you to wipe nonexistent sweat from his forehead. He’s nervous, pacing back and forth because he can’t stand still.

“I’m sorry. The other night, I’m  _ sorry _ ,” you plead. Bucky’s pacing pauses and then resumes. You growl quietly. “God, will you  _ stop pacing _ and listen to me?!”

“Why?” He rounds on you, voice rising in anger, in hurt you realize, and his eyes are blazing. “So you can reject me to my face? No need. I got the picture. Loud and clear.”

He spins away from you, vibranium hand diving into his hair to muss up the bun he’s tied it in.

“That’s not why I’m here,” you tell him thickly. God, you really need to stop crying all the damn time. “I shouldn’t have walked away, Bucky. Not from you. I was scared and confused of what I was feeling for you,  _ what I feel _ for you.”

Bucky looks at you, finally, and any other words you may have wanted to say die on your tongue. The blue in his eyes is so rich, so bright, it pulls you in as if it has its own orbit. Of their own accord your hands reach up to lay on his bare chest, tiny coarse hairs tickling your palms. Beneath, his heart races, but he doesn’t look away.

Surprisingly, you feel no fear when you whisper, “I love you Bucky. I’m  _ in love  _ with you.”

There’s a moment where you worry, just for a second, but then Bucky’s kissing you and the world seems to right itself. He’s all-encompassing warmth, arms winding tightly around you to haul you up against his chest. You sigh into his mouth and the warm wet of his tongue slides along the seam of your lips. Willingly, you open underneath him, whimper in the back of your throat when he presses harder against you.

Your hands dive into his hair, winding the strands around your fingers and tug gently. He rumbles into your mouth and it brings goosebumps to your skin. His chest is hot against yours, and the longer he kisses you, the more you long to be pressed skin to skin. Your lungs burn, but you can’t bring yourself to pull away just yet. He’s far too addicting, and now that you’ve started, you’re not sure you’ll ever stop.

But he does, pulls away just enough so you can both pull in deep lungfuls of air. A silent conversation passes between you, and then you’re moving, taking the elevator to his floor, and he crowds you into his room. He kisses you softly but deeply, tilting your head back to fully devour you. It leaves your knees weak and you sag against him, brace against his chest to keep yourself upright. 

His hands come up to frame your face and he breaks away just an inch.

“Tell me you’re sure, doll,” he whispers hoarsely, eyes wide and shining and so full of need it shakes you. 

“I’ve never been more sure,” you reply honestly. You groan when he slams his mouth to yours again, heady and demanding and urging you to bend. You become pliant in his hands, allowing him to strip you away until you’re bare in front of him.

He can’t take his eyes off you, trailing them up and down in slow repetition, as if he can’t believe you’re real. A flush breaks out across your neck and down your chest, and you reach for him. Bucky hisses when your fingers dip into the band of his sweats, jerk down to pool them at his feet. He’s bare underneath, and by god, does he take your breath away.

Your heart pounds as you trace the lines of his body, relishing in his shuddering inhale when you circle his nipples with your nails. Eyes fluttering up to his, you lean forward and trace the same path with your lips, tongue, and teeth. At his sides his fists clench with restraint. He lets you explore his body, knowing he’ll have the chance to do the same.

He chokes on a breath when you lower yourself to your knees, eyes widening at his stiff cock nestled between those sinful thighs. He’s velvet over steel, hot and heavy in your hand when you wrap your fingers around him. He groans, hips jutting forward just a bit, and he thinks he’s going to come when your tongue swipes at his sensitive head, laps at the bead of precum at the tip.

“My my, Bucky,” you taunt, peering up at him from under your lashes. His jaw muscles work as he grits his teeth. “I’ve barely touched you and look at you.”

He nearly chokes on his spit. The mouth on you. A long, low moan rips from his throat when you take him into the heat of your mouth. He thinks he might’ve died and gone to heaven with how perfect you feel around him, taking him inch by inch. White-hot pleasure races through his system, sets his heart to pounding as you take him to the back of your throat and swallow.

“Christ.” His hands fly to your hair, stilling you momentarily, and he thinks you look so goddamn beautiful like this. Mouth stretched around his cock and eyes glistening.

Slowly he guides you back and forth along his length, his hips thrusting into your mouth. Your hands brace on his thighs, nails scraping along the skin, and when you moan around him, he has to pull you off before this is over before it’s even started.

You moan again when he kisses you, relishes in the tang of himself on your tongue. He hoists you into his arms and carries you to his bed. You flop against the pillows and sigh when he cages you in with his massive body. You’re warm, safe, secure, and so utterly  _ in love _ you think you might cry. Especially when he stares down at you with a loving adoration that makes your heart stutter in your chest.

“Tell me again,” he murmurs, closing his eyes as he lowers his forehead to yours. “Tell me.”

“I love you,” you sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I love you so much, Bucky.”

He kisses you hard but so full of love it threatens to burst your heart. His metal hand supports his weight as his flesh hand drifts down your body, plies your legs open to find you hot, wet, and ready for him.

“Jesus, doll,” he curses, dipping a finger just inside your opening. You sigh, drop your head back onto the pillow as he learns your body, figures out how to play you like a fiddle. It’s beautiful torture, the slide of his fingers inside you.

When he curls them, you keen at the jolt of pleasure that zings up your spine. “Bucky!”

With a new kind of vigor he brings you to the edge embarrassingly fast, stroking your inner walls until you’re clenching around his digits and seeing stars. He laps at the skin of your neck, finds your pulse point and bites down. Shivers when you moan lowly and reach for him.

“Please, Bucky,” you beg in a broken whisper. Your eyes are hooded in pleasure, a sight he’s not sure he’ll ever forget. “I need you.”

It’s all the reassurance he needs as he grips himself, slides his head through your wet and quivering folds. You shakily inhale and meet Bucky’s eyes when he looks up from where you’re about to be joined.

“I love you,” he declares and sinks inside you in one long thrust. Your mouth drops open and he drops his neck to your neck, gasping at the tight velvet of your cunt as he bottoms out. He has to take a minute to adjust both himself and you, and then he moves.

Bucky’s a softer lover than Steve, but it’s no less all-consuming. He surrounds you, laces his fingers with yours and hikes your legs up around his waist as he pumps a slow but hard rhythm. He could listen to your moans for the rest of his life, taste the salty slick of your skin where your neck meets your shoulder, feel you fluttering around him as you near your peak.

He thrusts harder when the heels of your feet dig into his ass, feeling that burning at the base of his spine. He’s close, but he wants you there with him. He shifts suddenly, sits back on his calves and pulls you into his lap so that you’re pressed chest to chest. You’re breathing the same air as he moves you over his length.

“Look at me, doll,” he moans, leaning forward when you do to kiss you deeply. He arches your hips to grind your clit against his pelvis, and you’re nearly there.

“Bucky,  _ god _ , please!” you whimper, crying out when his metal hand cups your breast, thumbing over your nipple before it’s engulfed in the heat of his mouth. He laps at it with his tongue, and it sends you reeling, spiraling into oblivion with your mouth open in a silent scream.

He comes right behind you, a long groan of your name as he stutters his hips and spills inside you. It’s a long come down for the both of you. He lowers you gently to your back, drawing a hiss from you as he slips out of you. Immediately he pulls you into him, tucking your head under his chin and tightening his arms around you.

It’s quiet between you for a while, basking in the glow of your lovemaking.

“You think he knew?” you ask sometime later. Bucky’s trailing fingers on your spine pause and then continue. “When he was leaving, what would happen between us?”

Bucky sighs through his nose before nuzzling it against your hair. “I feel like that punk knew a lot he didn’t let everyone in on.”

You giggle. “He was wise in his old age, wasn’t he?”

“Careful, doll, you’re talking to a fossil, here,” he chides playfully. You lean back to look up at him.

“ _ My _ fossil,” you murmur, pushing forward to press your lips to his. He hums contently.

“Always been yours, doll.”


End file.
